Brutus
by Kyuunen
Summary: Kyle has only to wait for the thumb of God to come down from heaven and squash him flat. So much for the Romans. OneShot. KyleWendyStan.


Wow, it's been a very long while since I've posted up South Park fanfiction. Four years, haha. Which is a shame, considering how much I fanned over South Park. It seems incongruent that this should only me my second finished fic. Well, in any case, let's get the business out of the way.

Disclaimer: I do not own South Park. It is the property of creators Matt Stone and Trey Parker, and its various distributors. I am not profiting from this production, nor detracting from it.

And now that that's done with, on to the feature.

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**Brutus**

_by KyuuketsukiShounen_

People think Wendy must be frigid because she's a feminist. But it's _because_ she's so proud of her womanhood, really, that she can make a man melt. She doesn't just clutch her femininity in a loose palm—she _wields_ it.

Her breath hits the side of my face and I can smell her strawberry lip gloss so strongly I almost taste it. And it hits me that soon I won't be having to imagine a thing. My throat turns to styrofoam and when I swallow I swear can hear it squeaking.

I scoot back further away from her but she simply hops up onto my bed and crawls closer. I'm against the window now, my neck in chill contact with frosty glass, but the initial stab of cold dissipates with her hand against my chest. She thrusts her lips into mine and her sweetness drops over me like a velvet curtain. Yes, Wendy can make a man melt, but I'm just a boy—I see that now—and more than melting, I might die, right here, pinned between my bedroom window and her breasts.

Thank everything sacred that my house is empty. Parents and little brother gone for the weekend and a gorgeous girl from class on my bed, it's like a Penthouse fantasy.  
"Stop squirming, Kyle," she giggles. And I try to say something witty in return, but I can only silently think, _Oh God, I'm ruining her for you, Stan. I'm ruining her_. And it makes me hard.

She repositions herself, straddling my hips and her hair spills across my face, over my shoulders, tickling my neck. I try to brush it off and find my hand paralyzed in its grasp, trapping me like a Portuguese man-of-war, tugging me to the mouth to be devoured whole and held as close as possible to a nonexistent heart while digestive juices dissolve me to bits. But then her hair easily slips through my fingers, only marginally more solid than liquid, and with a shiver I realize I can only be caught if I let myself. She swoops down again and I rise up to meet her.

The sheets slide off the bed, and our history textbooks with them. Two solid thunks in rapid succession—like a heartbeat, almost—as they hit the ground. _So much for the Roman Empire_.

My hands slide up across her neck to the back of her head to pull her even closer. In kind, her hands move downwards and I freeze. I wriggle my lower half in dreading anticipation, and suddenly the overwhelming taste of sweetness is smashed between my nerves.

We've never done this before, this is only something I've ever dreamed about guiltily. And who knows what's made us finally snap and decide, that we're both intelligent horny people so screw her boyfriend who is my best friend, and hey, let's make out. And shit, I can tell from her eyes that she's been thinking about this moment, too, because I can see that same shadow of guilt. And it's eating us alive and egging us on.

Wendy moves with playful deliberation and when she toys at my belt loops, tugging at them sportingly, I dig my nails into her scalp and gasp. Taking my surprise as her cue, she breaths hot fire down my throat to my stomach and it comes back up to settle in a place between my lungs so very close to, but not quite, my heart.

Perhaps I scratched her a little too hard, because she shakes my hands off her head. She allows my right arm to fall limply at my side, but she grabs the wrist of my left and slams it so hard against the window beside my head it rattles and I almost panic at the thought of the glass shattering, the two of us spilling onto my snow-covered lawn. But the glass holds and I realize I should expect her to know the limits.

Though she has the cunning and destructive power to match with Cartman, she does not have his emotional spuriousness; Wendy hungers for control.

With that in mind, I snap to focus. _Yes, this is actually happening. Yes, I am actually in Wendy's room, on her bed, pressed against the window. She is actually panting and sweating against my face and I am actually panting and sweating with her_. I shut my eyes and try to constrict all my energy to my thrashing heart, to calm it down to a respectable rhythm like a Viennese waltz rather than the current tarantella, but it won't listen and besides I've never been good at percussion.

She pulls back, as if she too has come to her senses. Her eyes widen and she purses her lips as though embarrassed by them. But she's still laying across my hips and her hand still holds me restrained against the window. I lick my lips and grunt with impatience, but she seems to be staring right through me. I lift myself up and try to lean into the curve of her neck but she bats me away as soon as my tongue barely traces across her pulse.

"Kyle, stop," she says and pushes away from me. She pulls me away from the window. "He's here."

I turn and outside I see Stan's old beat up Volvo puttering down the street. It pulls into my driveway and the two of us watch without a word. Though I don't know if I'd even be able to hear her voice with my pulse pounding in my ear. I barely have enough time to calm my breathing, and damn it but the panic is making me even harder. I shut my eyes tight and try to focus, but it's only a few seconds before the squeak of the front door echoes through the empty house.

Stan calls out that he's here. We can only share an unsteady gaze as his footsteps pound up the stairs.

"Fix your pants," she hisses. "And wipe your mouth."

"What about your shirt?" I growl back. "And your mouth's a mess, too."

The doorknob turns. And Stan busts in.

"Hey guys," he says. "What's up?" And I want to shake that blithe smile right off his fucking face.

_I was about to fuck your girlfriend, that's what's up you stupid fuck_, I want to say. But Wendy answers instead.

"Studying for the next History quiz," she says, picking up her textbook from the carpet, as if she'd just set it down there. She sits next to me, as if that's the only thing she's been doing all afternoon. And although she's gotten away with murder, somehow she's still embarrassingly bad at lying to Stan.

"You guys are such nerds," he replies nonplussed, laughing. "This is what you're down to on a Friday afternoon?" Then he joins us on the bed, falling back on it spread-eagle. He's wearing his letterman jacket. Like always, it smells like evergreen air freshener, because he's always leaving it in his car. My nose twitches. But then he wriggles uncomfortably and punches me lightly on the back. "Your bed's really warm."

Wendy tenses and I almost bite my tongue off.

But as usual, he doesn't pull the pieces together, and after a few seconds of what is probably comfortable silence for him—which feel rather like long moments crushing anxiety for myself and Wendy—he sits up again.

"What's this quiz on?"

"The Roman Empire," I answer, a bit too quickly and eagerly. And then laugh nervously like a complete jackass. Wendy covertly pinches my arm.

"So like Caesar, and stuff?" Stan asks, cocking his head. "We haven't gotten to that yet in our class."

"Kind of," Wendy says, and I can just barely sense the little toe on her right foot making the most minute twitches. Her eyes dart at the walls every now and then, as if watching them slowly close in on us.

"Hey Wendy, didn't your mom need you for something?" I offer.

She turns to me, not meeting my gaze. But I can read the gratitude through the shame. "You're right. I have to get back soon." She gets up and gathers her things and is nearly out the door in barely under a minute.

Stan's face falls. "Oh. I thought the three of us could hang out until our date, Wendy."

She stops in the doorway, hand on the knob. She doesn't turn to face him, but her hair sort of waggles when she answers.

"About that, Stan," she starts. "Well, I'll call you later."

Then she hesitates.

"See you in class, Kyle."

Stan and I listen to her footsteps pad-pad-pad down the stairs.

"Guess that means the date's off," he grumbles. Though he might never read through her lies, at the very least Stan has become adept in knowing Wendy's moods.

He leans down and picks up my textbook, which has remained on the ground. He runs his fingers across the cover, across all the rips and scratches. As if remembering when it used to be glossy and clean, though we both know that was before either of us were born.

"The Romans," he says.

I raise an eyebrow at him.

He grins at me. "Et tu Brute, huh?"

I almost flinch. But I hold it in, and instead turn away to stare at my Albert Einstein poster. He's sticking out his tongue at me, as always. It makes my stomach twist a little thinking that the genius of the photoelectric effect watched the entire thing.

"Hey, wanna go see a movie?" Stan asks, suddenly. "I already bought the tickets."

I roll my eyes at him and he just shrugs.

"Sorry, but my evening plans don't include being my best friend's rebound date."

He just laughs. "It was worth a try."

I smirk back, trying to forget that I can still smell Wendy on my lips and all round.

"You'll have to try much harder than that, Stan Marsh, if you ever plan on getting me into bed."

I expect him to shoot back something funny, like he'll buy me flowers next time or something. But instead he sort of clears his throat before laughing again. And even then, when he laughs his voice cracks.

"That was a weird joke," he says. Then stands up stiffly. "I'll see you around then, Kyle."

_Finally_. I stifle the sigh of relief. "Yeah, see you, Stan."

I lay back down on my bed, ready to crumple up and wait for God's thumb to come down from heaven and squash me flat. As Stan leaves my room, I hear him mumble, "A weird joke. A really weird joke."

---

Later that night, I pretend I'm with Wendy again, and this time we're fucking for real. And no one's here to interrupt this time. We're in the middle of nowhere, in a field of grass—except it's not dirty and kind of itchy the way it would be in real life, it's refreshing but still hot, and wonderful. It's just me falling deep into her sharp-edged sweetness, and she wraps her long dark hair around me, tickling me. My fingers are everywhere, running over her ribs, down the length of her spine, ghosting patterns on her breasts. And then inside her, too. We tumble around laughing, and when she starts trying to talk about Jean-Paul Sartre, I stutter out the best of Simone de Beauvoir. And oh my God, if that's not the hottest shit ever.

And the only thing she'll be wearing is Stan's letterman jacket, and I'll bury my face in it. And as I pound into her I'll whisper, _You have to to try much harder than that, Stan Marsh. No joke_. I'll bury my face in his jacket, and lick all the patches until they're soaked and slippery. And it'll smell like strawberry evergreen.

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**A/N**: How did this one work out for you guys? Like it or hate it, I hope at the very least it left an itch down at the pit of your stomach. Funny how this fic mirrors but also inverts my last fic.

As always, I am glad for your readership. And even gladder when you review.

Thanks, and happy reading!


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